


Piece by Piece

by frozenfoxfire (orphan_account)



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, M/M, Ownership, Pre-Canon, Psychological Drama, Sexual Content, Stalking, Technology, ties into the movie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-19 13:39:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/frozenfoxfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Skyfall. </p><p>Someone's been contacting one of the Q Branch's finest assistants - the one slated to take the department, in fact. What fun little games they'll play.</p><p>Eventual Q//Silva, Bond//Q; eventual sex and violence. will add warnings and tags as needed throughout.<br/>Posting this in pieces to gauge interest & because I just cannot help myself sometimes. I like to share my toys. XD</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. round one

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to be updating this as often as possible, so if you're interested, let me know and keep your eyes peeled for more. :3

"Pick a country," said the innocuous little email.

He stared at the words on the screen for a long moment, blinking in confusion and glancing over his shoulder. A quick, smart click and the reply box was open. His fingers barely seemed to touch the keys as he typed, his typing fast with excitement and skill.

-What do you mean?  
 _Pick a country._  
-Any country?  
 _That is the idea._

His brow furrowed and he cocked his head, one finger tapping thoughtfully on the table. Another glance over the shoulder told him no one here was getting odd little emails like this; no one seemed to even suspect something was going on, not that they should. Or should they? He certainly should, he thought, his fingers tapping lightly on the keys. There was no way to trace the sender. They'd sent this email directly to his work account from an anonymous source. That should be impossible.

-Okay. France.  
 _Are you sure?_  
-Yes?  
 _France it is._  
-Can I ask why?

Ten minutes passed without any reply. He tapped away at his keyboard furiously the entire time, but not once could he find a trace of wherever it had been sent. That usually meant it came from within the building; that seemed even less likely than someone hacking into the system, somehow. Which should be impossible, save for people like him. 

"Sir?" one of the other assistants called out from across the room. He looked up, towards Q, the doddering old man hobbling around and serving out his last days at MI6. (Rumour had it Q was to leave in the next month or so, and he personally couldn't wait for that day.) "It seems there's been a blast in Paris. One of our agents is currently on the scene and is requesting directional help."

"Very well, very well," muttered Q, turning to the large screen. His hunched, frail frame hardly fit in with the high tech gadgetry and walls of screens. He began to give orders ("I need maps, up on three, and any surveillance, if you please. And if someone could bring me a cup of tea?") but the assistant in the back turned away. The others would get it. He had a more pressing concern at hand.

_That would be why. :)_

\---

He was required to attend the funeral, which didn't make much sense to him. He was only a lowly assistant in Q Branch, and Q himself had barely had any contact with the dead agent, so why the entire damn outfit had to attend was beyond him. He was uncomfortable in his ill-fitting black tux, one he'd had to rent for the occasion, and felt entirely stupid that it hadn't occurred to him a black coat would have done just fine. (At least he'd had the forethought not to wear a bow or a tie. That would have been a disaster.)

After the service was an outdoors wake. As he stood by the little food table, a small glass of water in his hand, looking crumpled and ignored in the corner, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He frowned. How odd. His phone wasn't exactly the busiest cell in the world. He barely had friends and virtually no family to speak of, and only kept it on his person in case of emergency. Fishing it out, he lit up the screen and nearly dropped his water glass.

_The service was nice._

Swallowing hard, he bit his lip and stared at the message. 

_You look nice in your little tux._  
-I'm sorry. I didn't see you there.  
 _No one did. :(_  
-Are you still here?

The seconds that passed before the reply were some of the longest of his life. His throat was tight and dry. He couldn't tell if this was fear, or excitement, or both. 

_Yes and no. I can't see you. Did you get cold and go inside? You always seem to be wearing something warmer and England is sooo dreary._

He decided right then it was fear.

-I don't understand. What were you trying to show me?  
 _Only that I know who you are._  
-Who am I?  
 _Your failsafe designs are brilliant._

There wasn't another message for a long time. He gripped his phone in one hand, and almost crushed the little plastic water cup in the other, staring without seeing out into the little group of mourners a few steps away. Something dangerous was happening, and he wasn't sure how he'd entered into it.

_Do you want to play another game?_

He stared at the screen a long time.

-What kind of game?  
 _Now there's a good sport._  
-You won't be blowing up any other agents, I hope.  
 _:)  
Time will tell, my friend._


	2. round two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> round two is celebratory, a toast to the new Quartermaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't actually know much more than cursory stuff when it comes to cracking, hacking and computer programs. I don't need a lesson on it, I'm not interested in hearing about it, and I'm sorry if this isn't plausible for you but after three rewrites and two different doomsday scenarios, I'm settling with this.
> 
> in any case I hope you all enjoy it.  
> no new warnings or tags yet.

No one, not even he, is surprised when M asks for him in her office, three days after Q's last day. He's been here for five years now, and they all knew what was in store for him when his training was completed. He still can't help but fidget slightly, sitting in the chair in front of her desk, just like he had (roughly) five years before.

_"Do you know why you're here, young man?" she asked._

_"Wouldn't have something to do with the fact I've hacked your system, would it?" he replied cheekily, the cuffs on his wrists not stopping his excitement or pride. She looks him over slowly, and he has to fight to keep his eyes on her. Even without speaking, she is the most terrifying presence he has ever experienced. She has an obvious air of cool confidence and power about her, and it is very, very clear he is entirely at her mercy._

_"How old are you, exactly?" she asked calmly, a few minutes after simply staring at him. He leapt at the chance to reply, grateful the stifling silence had been lifted. "Nineteen. I see." She stepped around the desk, leaning on it in front of him, her hands folded before her. "And what was the point of this exercise, exactly?"_

_"I'm interested in a job," he replied, his voice quieter now that she was so close. "I thought you might be needing a new Quartermaster soon?"_

"Mister Reid," she said as he entered the room, just like she had at their first meeting, and they'd been sitting in silence for well on five minutes since. "Do you know why you're here, young man?" she finally asked, licking her lips and leaning back, the pen in her hand placed carefully on the page before her. He forces himself not to fidget. He recalls his training. Cool and calm and utterly unshakable.

"Wouldn't have something to do with the fact you're in need of a Quartermaster, would it?" he replied calmly, evenly, with only the touch of a smile at his lips. 

When he returned to the department, the assistants stood and applauded. Surprised by the reception, he stuttered physically, shifting his glasses. "Thank you," he murmured, gripping his laptop and slipping to his new desk at the head of the room. "Let's get to work, everyone."

He opened his laptop to find a new e-mail.

 _Congratulations, Benjamin._  
-You know I prefer my middle name.  
 _Apologies, Sebastian._  
-In any case, it's Q now, thank you. Nothing else.

He shivered slightly, shrill dread gripping his spine. He shouldn't be surprised his mystery friend knew his real name, but it still shook him slightly to have it so obviously flaunted before him. There was a long silence, and after a few minutes, he tapped out another message, vaguely worried he might have offended the person on the other side.

-If you don't mind.  
 _No, no, no. I understand. That's a long time in the making. You must be so proud, Quartermaster._  
-I am.

Somehow, it seemed fitting that his secret friend knew what Q stood for. Somehow, it seemed like something he should worry about, or look after, or maybe look into, but he couldn't bring himself to. He should be afraid, but he isn't. That, in a nutshell, was their entire relationship.

 _Would you like to celebrate?_  
-What do you propose?  
 _Have you ever heard of "Muerte"?_  
-Quaint little name for an urban myth hacker. Supposed to connect every computer in the world to the seed computer and put them under control of the hacker. Supposed to be impossible to fix a computer that's had a taste of "muerte".

His quotation marks were added with more than just a little bit of sarcasm, something he hoped his secret friend would catch on to. He'd heard of the "supervirus"- along with every other supervirus supposed to exist. It was all bluster, usually on behalf of the half-witted idiot thinking he'd created the next end of the world experience for the technological world. If someone wanted to take control of a computer, they hardly needed these theatrics; besides, what was the point of taking control of every computer in the world?

 _Everyone thinks it's stronger than it is because no one has ever seen it before._  
-Have you?  
 _Yes._  
-What does it really do?  
 _It's a program designed to find any cracks, any little tiny thing, and slip in. It can hijack an entire network of computers, if the hacker wants._  
-Fascinating, but unnecessary.  
 _It's supposed to be unstoppable._  
-Is it?  
 _Let's find out._

His screen went black. A little red skull popped up in the corner, laughing at him with a high-pitched, tinny giggle. He felt a quiet dread take him. His computer was connected to the main network; if this virus- program- whatever the fuck it was worked its way in, he could lose all of MI6's information on his first goddamn day at his post. 

"No," he muttered angrily, unplugged his laptop from the main bank on his desk, his fingers hitting the keys hard. Muscle memory tapped in commands he knew by heart, opening programs and demanding the computer bend to his will, the program cease to be. He typed furiously enough and long enough that his assistants started to notice; trying not to be too nosy, they began walking past him, craning their heads around his desk in a hilarious mimed version of someone ineffectually looking for something, or setting a fresh cup of tea by his side only to be greeted by a muted red skull laughing on loop and their new Quartermaster typing furiously to a screen that didn't seem to move. 

He didn't notice them, so wrapped in his work and fear that all but the stupid little skull screen had ceased to be. 

His fingers stopped suddenly, right hand hovering over the enter key; with a deep breath, he tapped it, sending the last command. If he'd done this right -if he knew what he was doing, and he did, but God knows this little program could be something entirely new- he should be greeted with the screen returning.

There's a long moment. Nothing happened. After a few seconds, the little skull paused in its constant, infuriating motion. He could feel himself holding his breath. His assistants all watched on, confused and tense.

The page cleared.

Q let out a long breath and visibly relaxed, and the assistants wordlessly turned back to their work.

 _No one has ever tried that before._  
-Tried what?  
 _Tried manually inputting commands until getting a result. You isolated the issue and shut it down without having to look at what you were doing... Fascinating. Quite a good show._  
-It worked, then.  
 _Naturally. It's just a screen graphic! Most people assume it's the end of their computer._

He stared at the screen without moving for a solid five minutes.

 _By the way, if I want what's in your computer, I'm in it already. Disconnecting didn't change anything._  
-Protocol.

A lie. He knows it, his friend knows it.

_Congratulations again, Q. :)_


	3. round three

He's had the goddamn job for all of two days, and everything is going to shit.

_Don't you think the world's been much too boring lately?_

Q had been leaning heavily on his arms, staring with half-open eyes at an uninteresting design one of his assistants had asked for help with, bored out of his mind. The little blip that meant his friend was back again jerked him out of his half-daydreaming state.

 _Nothing happens anymore. Everyone is so content. Everything stagnates. Don't you agree?_  
-Yes, I do.  
 _That's good to hear. As long as I am not the only one discontent by the sad state of affairs._  
-What do you propose?  
 _What makes you think I have a plan?_  
-Why would you ask unless you did?

He didn't know the pause was caused by the man at the other end of the communiqué laughing, amused. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the keyboard, waiting for a reply, and leaned on one hand again. God, this design was so stupid. What was the point of a mouse with an explosive rollerball? _How is this going to help anyone?_ he wondered, bored. _At best, someone will stuff it in their trousers and blast their bloody knickers off._

 _Very good, very good! You know my devious mind cannot be stopped._  
-Not yet, anyways.  
 _Ooh, I feel so threatened. :)_

He rolled his eyes. 

_It is constantly working! Sometimes, I cannot sleep at night, I have so many ideas._  
-That sounds tiring.  
 _Do you know what I mean? You are so excited to share something with the world, and that excitement infects your every-day life. You cannot sleep! You cannot eat! You may only work, to scratch the itch for that much longer._  
-I've had days like that, yes.  
 _Only days?_  
-Now that I have a fully functional lab and assistants doing most of the boring bits, it happens much less frequently to me.  
 _Ah, but you assume I don't also have those things. I do, I just get excited._  
-I see.  
 _And that excitement becomes stretched and painful, and boredom creeps in, because I have all these things I have to wait for. So, I've decided to make something happen. Even if it does not affect anything on a grand scale, or even ultimately all that interesting._  
-So, then, what do you propose?  
 _I thought I might go shopping for a new hard drive.._  
-You don't say.  
 _I hear there's a rather fantastic specimen in Turkey right now._

Something in him froze, grew cold and shuddered. Something prickled at him. This sounded familiar somehow, like something he'd been recently looking at. A hard drive..

-Oh?  
 _Oh, yes. A tip I got from a very good friend of mine. Something in his e-mail. He's been very helpful._

Icy dread gripped his stomach, claws clutching his heart. Fuck. 

Fuck. _Fuck._

Timidly, Q reopened his inbox, abandoning the boring project altogether. He ignored his shaking hands, ignored his sweaty palms, ignored his sudden inability to breathe. There it was, in all its damning glory: the e-mail alerting him to the trade-off of the hard drives in Turkey, and that he may be necessary during the switch.

"Oh, God," he whispered, and the shaking spreads through his body.

Another e-mail pops up.

_I sent a friend of mine after it. I hope he gets there before it disappears. :)_

He'd run down the hall and up the way, bursting breathlessly into M's office. "Ma'am?" he gasped, and several of the assistants working under Tanner glanced up at him. "I-"

"Sir, there's been a distress signal," chirped one of the assistants suddenly, cutting him off. Behind the glass door, M's head jerked up, attention caught by the disturbance.

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait," Tanner called to Q from across the room. "Seems one of our agents is under attack. Please wait in Q Branch on standby. We may need you."

And now, here he is, sitting and watching the whole damn thing go down right before his eyes, helpless to stop it. Bond getting involved, and Moneypenny at his side. Everyone shouting into the intercoms. The hard drive going offline. Ronson's down, and Bond's team is after the man responsible. They're going out of tracking. His department, behind him, is silent, aside from one or two typing furiously, trying to send the correct information and tracking help to M's office. 

Moneypenny's shouting. 

Moneypenny's shooting.

Bond's down.

_Looks like my friend managed to get the last one. :) What luck! I hear the lines were killer._

He can't stop shaking.

\---

Q has to go to this funeral, too; he's expected to, just as he's expected to go to all of them, with the rest of the heads of the department. This is the second funeral he's gone to this year, and it's actually managed to get less pleasant than before. Everyone was stoic before, but this is a whole new level of mourning. The general energy is grim, and M wears it heavily. 

He's more uncomfortable now than he was before, in his mussed hair, crumpled suit and overlong jacket, surrounded by well-dressed mourners for an important man he'd never met but was expected to care for. He'd seen the man in the department once in a while, bantering with the old Quartermaster, but he'd never actually met or spoken to Bond. He was more than just a legend in MI6; there was that subset of people within the department that believed he _was_ MI6. Q didn't particularly care for the man. He'd heard the stories- _all_ the stories, which ranged from downright impossible to outright lewd -but he'd never had a reason to give a damn.

_It's so sad, isn't it?_

He'd been ignoring the e-mails for three days. It hadn't escaped his attentions that he'd narrowly missed pinning this on himself in front of M and Tanner, right before shit had hit the fan. He wondered constantly if that was his friend's idea, or if it had been a warning, or if he were just fucking with Q, like he had been the entire time, or if it'd been an accident ...

_All of these people, but he wasn't close to any of them._

The vibrating in his pocket was insistent and obnoxious, and he pursed his lips and pushed his phone into his coat, intending to ignore it. He wandered aimlessly to the grave as the mourners began to disperse. The service had been boring, with long, drawn-out speeches about duty and honour. M's speech had easily been the worst of them all, short and clipped and valiantly hiding her hurt. She must have been close to him. 

He let his imagination wander for a moment, giggled at the idea of the two of them emotionally involved, pointedly ignored the continual buzzing in his coat pocket with the image of Bond laying his jacket in the road for her to walk over, the image of them sharing breakfast together and M grousing at him about over-sugaring the grapefruit, the image of a sweaty Bond in a dark room murmuring "oh, _Marm_ ". He giggled again, despite himself.

It occurred to him the vibrating hadn't stopped for just about two straight minutes. While his phone did vibrate twice for each message, the vibrations were short and quick, and his phone was vibrating like he was receiving a call, so he pulled it out of his jacket again and irritably checked the face.

"Q," he answered, annoyed.

"Stop ignoring me," spat the voice at the other end. His breath caught, his spine stiffened. He froze where he stood. "I don't like wasting my time."

"Sorry," Q replied carefully, taking care to avoid sounding just as terrified as he felt, keeping his voice lightly annoyed and somewhat uninterested. "I'm sure you'll have noticed I'm a little busy, being at a funeral and all."

"Standing at the foot of his grave. Reminiscing all the wonderful times you had?"

"Did you know him?"

"Not personally. I know you didn't, either, so I can't imagine why you're standing there but to ignore me."

A tickling brushed the back of his neck. He felt like he was being watched, but it was more intense than it normally was when he was speaking to the man with no face. Slowly, Q turned where he stood, eyes scanning the graveyard desperately. He froze again when he noticed the dark figure standing halfway across the way. The figure had a hand to its ear, as if it were on the phone.

"..You came anyways."

"Usually the polite thing to do for a downed agent on your watch. No body, though. I wonder how many of these she's filled. Empty coffins, with nothing left to speak of."

The dark figure started to walk towards him. He could feel his hands shaking.

"This is the second funeral I've been to because of you."

"You aren't congratulating me, are you?" There was a smile in the man's voice.

"Why would I congratulate you for providing yet another boring distraction?" Q scoffed. His hands wouldn't stop shaking, eyes fixed on the moving figure. "You keep pulling me away from my work."

"Would you like me to _excite_ you, instead?" Now the tone made him shiver out of something more than fear. The words promised danger and violence, and purred over the phone with more sexual shadowing than Q could comprehend. This man was getting closer, getting more and more real, more and more a threat, less and less an e-mail he hid from his superiors, less and less a terrorist who kept his secrets in the Quartermaster for the other team...

"Q?" called someone behind him. The man faltered, turned and stood before a grave, back to the Quartermaster. Q swallowed and turned as well, facing Tanner, who looked worried. "We're leaving now. Didn't you take a ride with M?"

"Yes, I did. I'll be right on my way," Q replied easily, nodding. 

"Oooh, my my. She must _like_ you," the man murmured, voice sultry, at the other end of the phone.

"Business?" Tanner asked, pointing at the phone in Q's hand. Everyone at MI6 had been on edge since the drive had gone missing, waiting on their seats for bad news every moment.

"Personal," Q sighed, forcibly keeping his tone and face neutral. Tanner nodded with a silent "ah", turning away again and walking toward the cars. "I have to go," he said to the phone, turning and looking at the dark figure across the yard. "You do have a way back, I hope, to wherever it is you come from," he drawled.

"I do," the man replied, and his voice was amused. "I thought I should let you know I'll be seeing you soon."

"Will you?" Q snorted haughtily. "Your schedule is so busy. I wonder how you'll pencil it in."

"Do try to keep that wicked little tongue of yours in check, hmmm? I'd hate to have to bite it off."

Q could practically hear the smile on his face as he snapped the phone closed and, without glancing back at Q, walked away. He hesitated for a moment, before he turned back again and stalked towards the cars.

_Three (3) Missed Calls._  
 _5 Messages:_  
 _I wonder how long it takes her to replace her favourite baby._  
 _You're standing by his grave. Did you know him? I didn't think you did._  
 _You're ignoring me, aren't you?_  
 _I know you can feel it vibrating. I know you can hear it. I know you know I'm here._  
 _You can either reply, or I'll teach you how to be afraid._


	4. ---an aside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _dubious consent & sexual content_

"Don't you ever feel you could be doing more?" 

He's not sure he's dreaming. He hopes he is. If he isn't, the voice from the phone is standing at his bedside, and that is the most horrifying thought he's ever considered.

"Don't you ever think you could be worth more?"

He feels a smattering of fingertips on him: his lips, his chin, his throat, his chest... It feels like there are too many hands, four or five hands and so many fingers sliding up and down the curves and angles and ridges of his body, slipping into the dip of his collarbone and the caves of his hips and his navel, and God, they're everywhere, and he can't move, and he doesn't know what to do-

"You could be so much more," the voice whispers, husky and hot in his ear, and he shudders and shifts under the touch, because his body is so _hot_ and the fingers are so _cold_ , and he needs more of it, he needs more of them _right now_.

"Oh.. Please," he moans, desperate and whiny and under his breath. "Please.."

"I could make you so much more," and there's a palm on him, wrapping around his cock, pumping hard, and there are fingernails on his chest and his hips and he's bucking up, gripping sweaty sheets as tightly as his fingers can and he's mewling like a kitten- "God, _God,_ fuck, _fuck!_ " -and the voice chuckles and he comes, christ _fuck_ does he, and the hands withdraw and he's crumpled and sweaty and sticky and cold. "We could make such beautiful music together, if you'd just let me in."

And he wakes up in the morning, confused and alone. His limbs are tangled in sheets no longer sweaty, and his body is entirely naked and he cannot remember going to sleep naked. He showers slowly, trying to piece together his dreams, and ignores the soft prick of pain on an odd scratch on his stomach, and washes the dried cum from his stomach, shame burning in his face.

It's been a long time since he'd had a dream like that.

 _(It_ was _a dream._

_.. wasn't it?)_


End file.
